


Impossible

by vividder



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Inaccuracies, Sickfic, meningitis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:33:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22021861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vividder/pseuds/vividder
Summary: Sherlock is has an illness.  John saves his life.
Relationships: Mrs. Hudson & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock had actually gone to bed willingly.

As far as John could figure, Sherlock had probably been up for about four days straight working on a case with a spree killer. That morning, they closed the case and Sherlock had celebrated by creating some foul-smelling smoke in the kitchen.

If nothing else, John was glad to have the living area to himself for a little while instead of having to share it with his obnoxious git of a best friend. 

Writing the blog was so much easier without Sherlock criticizing his every word.

John closed his laptop and headed towards his bedroom, but stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He heard noise from Sherlock’s room.

John could have ignored it, but he’d never heard Sherlock talk in his sleep before. And something just felt...wrong. For some reason, the sound made the hairs on the back of John’s neck stand up.

It’s probably nothing, he told himself. 

Still he cracked the door and peered in. Sherlock lay on the bed, moaning softly.

“Sherlock?” John asked quietly, totally prepared for Sherlock to snap at him.

But Sherlock didn’t. 

Something was definitely wrong (but it was probably a nightmare and he shouldn’t overreact, John’s rational brain reminded him). He walked over to Sherlock and put a hand on his shoulder to shake him awake, but stopped. Sherlock felt really warm, definitely feverish. John moved to rest the back of his hand against Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock didn’t move away.

He was burning up.

John reached over and turned on the light.

Sherlock moaned again before vomiting over the edge of the bed and whimpering. His eyes were squeezed shut.

John got down next to Sherlock, carefully avoiding the sick on the floor and noticing some on the bed. He put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder again. “Sherlock, are you awake?”

“John,” Sherlock mumbled. “Sleep.”

If this had been a normal illness, John would have let him. But this didn’t seem normal. “Not now. You have to stay awake. Sherlock?”

“Mm.”

“Open your eyes.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Hurts?”

“What hurts?”

“Hurts.”

The half-answers concerned John. “Sherlock, you need to open your eyes.”

Sherlock opened his eyes, squinting in pain. His pupils were blown wide.

“Are you on anything? Did you take anything?”

Sherlock’s eyes slipped closed again.

“Sherlock.”

“Pain.”

Okay, so this wasn’t going anywhere.

“Sherlock, stay awake,” John repeated. “You need to go to the hospital. I can either call an ambulance or Mycroft. Your choice.”

Sherlock stayed quiet for several seconds. John counted slowly to ten. Any longer than that, and he’d just call an ambulance. He never should have asked Sherlock in the first place, but--

“Myc.”

Okay, something was really wrong if Sherlock wasn’t protesting going to the hospital in the first place.

“I’ll call him. Will you be okay for a minute?”

“Myc.”

“I’m calling him,” John said, and took out his phone. He took a few steps away and turned his back. It didn’t matter whether or not Sherlock would hear the phone call at this point. He probably would not care.

Mycroft answered on the second ring. “John? What’s going on?”

“Sherlock’s sick,” John said. “Something is really wrong. I gave him the option of calling an ambulance or you, and he chose you.”

“I’ll be on my way.”

Mycroft hung up and John stared at his phone for a minute. Nothing, no questions, just okay.

“He’s coming soon,” John said to Sherlock, who had closed his eyes again. John shook his shoulder and Sherlock grunted.

“Don’t fall asleep.”

“Sleep.”

“Nope.” He thought for a moment. “Let’s get you on the couch, okay?”

“Hurts.”

“Yeah, I know.” But it was better than Sherlock rolling back into his own sick again and would let John keep a better eye on him while gathering a few things. “Let’s get you up. Can you walk?”

Sherlock cracked open his eyes and glared at John.

“Come on.”

John helped Sherlock sit up and swing his legs over the edge of the bed. Sherlock shivered and let John move him, whimpering in pain and grabbing John’s jumper with ice-cold fingers.

Ice-cold fingers.

John held Sherlock’s hands in his. 

Definitely not normal, especially with a high fever.

“‘S cold,” Sherlock slurred. “Sleep.”

“Later.” John positioned Sherlock’s arm over his shoulder and helped him up. Sherlock leaned on John, but managed to make it to the couch. John positioned him on his side and put a blanket over him. “Any better?”

“No.”

John flipped off the light in the living room and turned on the one in the kitchen. He took the bin from the bathroom and placed it under Sherlock’s head, then used a cool damp cloth to wipe his face. 

“I’m going to get our shoes,” John said. “Do you want me to grab anything else?”

“Head.”

John shook his own head. “No, the head in the fridge isn’t coming. And I think the hospital will take it away if you try and get Molly to bring one to you.”

John debated whether or not to grab Sherlock’s coat and decided against it when he heard Sherlock being sick again. 

John went to his side and rubbed his back and wiped his face.

“John,” Sherlock mumbled.

“I’m here.”

John stayed by Sherlock’s side and put his shoes on, trying to reassure him and keep him awake until he heard footsteps on the stairs.

“I’ll be right back,” he said and went to the door.

However disoriented Sherlock was, he could still glare at Mycroft. “No.”

“You asked for him.”

“No.”

“Unfortunately, you don’t get a say in this, little brother.”

Sherlock’s eyes drifted closed again.

John walked over and shook Sherlock’s shoulder. His eyes opened again. “Well, it appears we should get going sooner rather than later,” Mycroft said. “Can he stand?”

John didn’t answer immediately, which was enough of an answer to bring Mycroft to Sherlock’s side. John helped Sherlock sit up, and with him and Mycroft on either side, helped Sherlock to his feet.

Sherlock nearly collapsed the moment they helped him stand. If Mycroft hadn’t been there, he would have hit the ground.

They mostly carried Sherlock down the stairs to Mycroft’s idling black car.

Instead of sitting up front, Mycroft sat in the back, Sherlock’s legs curled on his lap. He held one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, almost tenderly. John let Sherlock’s head rest on his lap.

In John’s opinion, it seemed right that the two only actually cared about each other when something went seriously wrong. An observation he would have cared about if Sherlock’s condition wasn’t deteriorating so worryingly. This didn’t resemble a regular illness or drug overdose. This was something else entirely.

Thankfully, having the British government escorting you to the hospital meant that you didn’t need a siren to move quickly through traffic.

Sherlock mumbled, not making much sense. John just kept trying to reassure him “It’s okay,” he said. “We’re going to get help. You’ll be okay soon.”

The hospital was in sight when Sherlock’s eyes closed and his lips stopped moving. John could feel the heat on his skin and the shallow movements of his chest with each too-quick breath.

“Sherlock, stay awake,” Mycroft said firmly, then Sherlock gasped.

John looked over.

Mycroft had dug his nails into Sherlock’s leg, hard.

“Apologies.” Mycroft took his hand away and looked out the window. “I...panicked.”

“Yeah,” John said, his own heart racing in his chest. “Me too.”

The driver pulled up to the entrance and Mycroft went to get a wheelchair. 

“John,” Sherlock breathed, almost too quiet to hear.

“I’m here.”

John kept his fingers on Sherlock’s thready pulse as he watched for Mycroft.

They managed to get Sherlock into the wheelchair.

“It’s going to be bright inside,” John warned him, perhaps pointlessly. Perhaps Sherlock was beyond caring about that. But John had to assume otherwise. “Nothing we can do about that.”

Mycroft pushed Sherlock through the doors.

Sherlock didn’t react. His thin frame seemed too small in the wheelchair, like a child sitting in their parents’ armchair.

The triage nurse only briefly examined Sherlock before speaking into a radio, while the other nurse quizzed them for their information. Mycroft gave the personal information from memory, leaving the medical details to John.

“We need to take him back immediately,” the nurse examining Sherlock said, looking up at them. “He’s very sick.”

“Yeah, we figured that out,” John said.

“Do what you need to,” Mycroft added, giving the doctors something like a death glare. 

They took Sherlock back, but Mycroft headed for the doors and not the waiting area.

“You’re leaving?” John asked. He should have known. Mycroft never stuck around for a second more than necessary.

“I have work to finish, and it won’t get done if I’m sitting here.”

The unspoken  _ It doesn’t help Sherlock if I just sit here, either  _ hung in the air between them.

“And Sherlock would like to pretend I didn’t help him, so I’m doing him a favor by leaving before he’s in any shape to remember tonight.” Mycroft’s expression softened. “You’re listed as one of his emergency contacts. If anyone tries to deny you information, please call me and they will be fired on the spot.”

As Mycroft walked away, John felt an incredible exhaustion sweep over him.

And the night wasn’t over yet.


	2. Chapter 2

John woke to someone calling his name.

“Dr. Watson?”

Slowly, he opened his eyes and blinked into the harsh, white light. He’d fallen asleep sitting in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the waiting area, and his whole body felt stiff. He had a crick in his neck and his once-injured shoulder protested as he sat up. 

“Yeah? Sorry,” he said, his eyes coming to rest on a doctor on the other side of the room.

The man walked over to him, holding out a hand for John to shake. He took it.

“I’m Dr. Leon,” he said. “Mr. Holmes is pretty lucky to have you as a flatmate.”

Sherlock had somehow contracted meningitis.

John had, by now, figured out that the impossible could and would happen to Sherlock on a regular basis.

They took his blood to check his titers and for possible signs of infection before letting him see Sherlock. 

He’d been taken to intensive care, where they’d sedated him so he could heal. Sherlock lay still on the bed, his clothes changed for a hospital gown. Machines crowded the space around the bed. The doctor kept talking, but John only half-paid attention.

For him, the most relieving sign was that they hadn’t bothered to put Sherlock on a ventilator, that his body had stubbornly kept going while the bacteria tried to wreak havoc on his brain. 

Although he hated those stupid plastic chairs, John couldn’t wait to trade the one in the waiting room for the one at Sherlock’s side.

He turned over the diagnosis in his mind.

It made total sense and John kicked himself for not realizing it earlier. The ideas his anxious mind had thrown around were things like poisoning, drug overdose, or biological warfare. He wanted to blame himself for not paying closer attention, for forgetting that Sherlock was human too.

And he’d just gotten really sick, like humans do.

The idea that he would have just missed Sherlock’s illness under any other circumstances scared John. If Sherlock had gone to bed when he normally did, if John had decided to go to Sarah’s, if Sherlock had made the boneheaded decision to go out, John would be standing in a funeral home, not a hospital.

Meningitis could move fast once it got started.

Sherlock probably wouldn’t have lasted the night.

John reached over to grab Sherlock’s hand. It no longer felt cold, and John felt grateful for that small improvement.

Things weren’t good. They weren’t great. But they might turn out okay.

Sherlock slept through the day, only stirring slightly when the doctors and nurses checked his vitals or when John wiped the sweat from his hot skin. 

John stayed by his side, only leaving to use the toilet, go to the vending machine, or to answer a call.

Mycroft only sent a single text informing John that cleaners had been sent to their apartment.

Mrs. Hudson called, cried when she heard the news, and promised to visit. John had to urge her to stay away, telling her Sherlock might be contagious until she promised she’d only visit after John told her to come.

Lestrade seemed concerned, but reassured John he’d dig up some cold cases, to save his own sanity once Sherlock could call him again.

John had to agree with that one. Sherlock was truly infuriating when he just had a cold. John didn’t really want to imagine what kind of strop a long recovery from a serious illness might bring.

But hopefully they’d cross that bridge when they got there.

“He seems to be responding to the antibiotics and steroids,” Dr. Leon told John that afternoon. “Those are good signs.”

As if John didn’t know, but it was reassuring to hear it from someone else too.

That evening, Mrs. Hudson called again, telling John he had to come back for dinner and that he couldn’t subsist on crisps, biscuits, and soda alone (and also that, as a doctor, he should know that).

And that she had the money for a cab in her hand and would not hesitate to drag him out of the hospital so he could have a shower and sleep in a proper bed, too.

“We will keep an eye on him,” the nurse said, writing John’s number down on a pad of paper, “and we will call you if anything changes.”

John must have looked hesitant, because she continued. “We all want the best for your friend. Go and get some rest and the moment he needs you, we will call you.”

John didn’t care that he might have seemed ridiculous.

No matter the circumstances, he would always be Sherlock’s doctor.

Mrs. Hudson wrapped John in a hug the moment she opened the door to her apartment.

“You poor thing. You’re so good to him,” she said. She pulled away. “How is he?”

“Still asleep. Not much change.”

She pursed her lips worriedly.

“But he’s not getting worse either, which is a good sign.”

“Good.” She walked into the kitchen and began to ladle soup into bowls. “But you need to take care of yourself too, or you’ll end up in a hospital bed right next to him.”

“Don’t worry, I’m going to get a shower before I go back.”

“A nap wouldn’t be amiss either.” She set the bowls on the table. “But those cleaners his brother sent, they were quite nice. Did my flat too. I know Sherlock hates him, but sometimes he can be so thoughtful.”

“They definitely don’t have a typical relationship,” John agreed.

“My sisters never would have done that for me, let me tell you.” 

“Harry wouldn’t have done it for me either.”

“How is Harry doing? I know you two don’t get on, but I know you stay in touch.”

“She’s good,” John said, taking a bite of the soup. “This is wonderful.”

“My friend Laura gave me the recipe.”

They ate and chatted, and John insisted on helping with the dishes. As he turned to leave, Mrs. Hudson wagged her finger at him. “Don’t you dare think of going back to that hospital until you’ve gotten some rest.”

John put one hand on the banister and smiled at her. “Thanks for dinner, Mrs. Hudson. And I’m just about to go up there now.”

“I’ll be listening for the door, so don’t try anything funny!” But she grinned. “And tell Sherlock he’ll have to come once he’s feeling better.”

“Will do.”

By the time John had taken a shower, he couldn’t wait to get back to the hospital and to Sherlock. He kept checking his phone to see if the hospital had notified him, making it impossible to really rest or relax.

Still, he tried.

No news meant Sherlock was still asleep, not going to notice that he had left, and not getting worse. He could afford to take care of himself for a few minutes.

Of course, it only lasted that long: a few minutes.

Early the next afternoon, they started lifting the sedation. 

The process felt torturous to John.

What if he just didn’t wake up?

But Sherlock started to become restless, shifting under the sheets and trying to get at the IVs, which the nurses secured with bandages. Because of course Sherlock would want to yank them out.

He was petulant and ornery while awake and well, why should he be any different when sleepy and unwell?

John sat next to him and pulled his hands away from the sensors and bandages, replacing the pulse ox whenever Sherlock knocked it off, and trying to reassure him.

“It’s okay,” he would say, over and over. “Sherlock, it’s okay. You’re safe.”

As afternoon turned to evening, Sherlock opened his eyes.

John felt nearly overcome by relief when he saw normal-sized pupils, which reacted to light.

“Sherlock?” he asked carefully. 

A few seconds passed. “John?”

John grinned.

He would be okay.

Five more days, and they finally permitted Sherlock to leave the hospital only because John was a doctor who would be able to administer the IV medications and monitor his patient.

Relief turned to apprehension after Sherlock’s survival was confirmed.

It wasn’t often someone really, totally recovered from meningitis.

There were aftereffects.

For Sherlock, those mostly seemed to be headaches, which would leave him in debilitating pain for hours on end. He refused almost all pain medication, and so there was nothing anyone could do.

Either they would go away, or they wouldn’t.

There were other changes too, ones expected after a serious illness. Sherlock sulked and had less energy, proclaimed his boredom less loudly, and solved cases more slowly (even though he wasn’t allowed at crime scenes yet). 

But despite everything, John had hope.

Sherlock Holmes was an impossible man, living an impossible life. It only suited him that he’d have an impossible illness too. But he’d survive and keep going, despite the odds.

And he would always have his doctor by his side.

A seemingly-impossible friendship, and the rare one that would last a lifetime too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Winter break has been good for my writing. :)
> 
> Please kudos and/or comment if you enjoyed, it makes my day to get those emails.


End file.
